


What could've been

by DekuNara



Category: Original Work
Genre: Angst and Feels, Denial of Feelings, Hurt No Comfort, Introspection, No Dialogue
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-19
Updated: 2020-12-19
Packaged: 2021-03-10 17:42:13
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 512
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28181088
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DekuNara/pseuds/DekuNara
Summary: An emotional short story I wrote for a competition.
Kudos: 4





	What could've been

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Watching her walk down the stairs was the saddest yet most beautiful moment of my life in retrospect. Her dress was flowing and blue with silver sequins, billowing around her legs. Her silver two inch heels softly tapping the ground as she walks. The rhythm of it matching a heart beat. The sparkle in her almost lavender eyes making the makeshift stars dotting her gown dull in comparison. Her ebony locks in two Victorian style braids to the base of her skull, the rest flowing behind her, loose and curly beyond the tight plait. She looks at me, smiling wide, her cheeks a lively pink. She tells me it’s alright, everything is going to be okay. Nothing that I know happens, actually happens. I don’t give her hand to the boy that I've only moderately threatened. I don’t watch her laugh at a joke he made to break the ever growing tension, with her kissing his cheek in greeting. They don't promise to stay safe and that they'll be back by midnight. I don't tell them to have a great time and to remember to not drink. He doesn’t walk her to his small blue car, opening the door for her like the gentleman she reassured me he is. He doesn’t drive away, down the street; the car doesn’t disappear as he makes the first turn out of our neighborhood. The car doesn’t swerve, it doesn’t crash. My child, my little girl, isn’t dead. She isn’t gone. I’m not looking at her resting in a coffin, wishing the boy, the one I knew she loved, wasn’t in a coma at St. Peters. I’m not staring at her face, trying to visualize her waking up and telling me that the dance was amazing, and how the boy was so sweet and charming. Telling me how I didn’t need to tell the boy to treat her right. Showing me pictures of her and her friends dressed to the nines and dancing and having the time of their oh so short lives. I’m not staring at her, memorizing what’s left. I’m not silently willing her to come back to me. I’m not. But I am. I’m wishing I could turn back time, that this is all a dream. Praying that I’ll get her back so I could protect her better, hold her more, keep her safe. Tell her that her mother would be proud, that I’m proud. And now I can’t. I can only talk to the pictures I have and pray she can hear me. Pray she's in a better place and happy. Life isn't fair, the world keeps turning while she’s not here. The sun goes down, the stars stop hiding behind the silvery expanse that one calls the sky. People are still capable of smiling, even with the light she held snuffed like an insignificant incense wick. A tear falls, leaving a shiny streak on my face. Almost as if to convey the emotion I can not. As if to tell the story of her life, of her leaving me, once again.   
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End file.
